Twenty One
by Min the Noodle
Summary: So why is twenty-one the perfect number? Roxas isn't sure why Axel is so adamant about this, but sometimes you must humor your friends- even if it means counting on your fingers.


**Author's Note:** Just a quick, friendshippy one-shot, if a bit fluffy. I really have no idea where this one came from, though I think that checking my account for the first time in several months and then spending a month reading for a friend may have done it.

Disclaimer: As a staunch campaigner against human trafficking, I own neither Axel nor Roxas.

Reviewers are loved forever and a day.

- - -

**Twenty-One**

Twenty-one is the perfect number, declares Axel.

Roxas turns to look at him, slight confusion creasing his brow and sharpening his blue eyes. Twenty-one? he asks. Why twenty-one?

Axel laughs and folds his arms lazily, leaning over the balcony. It's a cold night, one that makes words come out in soft puffs that rise high into the sky. Traverse Town stretches out before them, a vast array of glittering lights against the blackness. Can't you count, Roxas? Look.

He holds out his hands and ticks the numbers off on his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. Axel folds the fingers of his left hand down one by one. Add three and that's eight.

Roxas looks at him, saying nothing. He knows that Axel isn't finished; he wants to hear the rest, so he waits for the conclusion, the finale. Everything that Axel does always has a finale. His friend is dramatic like that; every movement, every facial expression is carefully crafted for his audience of the moment. But Roxas has seen the other side, Axel's real face.

And it scares him how vulnerable his friend really is.

Axel raises one brow, his lips curling up into a wry smile. It's a perfectly calculated gesture, Roxas knows, and wonders if it is genuine. Eight, Axel repeats, prompting a response. And what is eight, Roxas?

Roxas knows he's supposed to respond. It's a number, he says flatly. It's not the right answer, but he knows that Axel will be eager to correct him.

Wrong. Axel waggles a finger in Roxas' face. It's a number, yes, but it's also a person. Axel leaves it hanging, knowing that Roxas will figure it out.

And as he stares at his friend, the answer suddenly dawns on him. It's you, he says, startled. Eight- that's you. You're eight.

Axel grins at him. Right! Eight's my number, though you know I'm really number one. When Roxas rolls his eyes and starts to turn away, Axel holds out his hands again. Now look, he says. Twenty-one. I don't have twenty-one fingers, but look at these eight once again. Hold out your hands, Roxas.

Roxas obliges, unfurling his fingers.

Good. Axel lifts all of his own fingers now, holding them out parallel with Roxas'. See that? That's twenty.

Now he folds down eight fingers. How many are left, Roxas? Axel asks.

Roxas glances down. The finale is close; he can feel it. Twelve, he says aloud, waiting for it.

Right. So add one. A single lazy finger flicks out, one more black line against the graying stone balcony. Now that makes twenty-one.

Wait, protests Roxas. That isn't twenty-one, that's—

The stunned silence stretches between them.

That's thirteen, finishes Roxas at last.

That's me.

Axel's grin grows wider, and this time it is not a mask. This is real.

And this is the finale, Roxas can tell.

Eight plus thirteen. That makes twenty-one. Twenty-one, y'see, because as a team we're unbeatable. Axel presses his hands against the balcony and leans over the edge, teetering dangerously close to those hundreds of glittering lights below. Which makes it the perfect number, eh. Don't you think so?

It's okay, Roxas allows grudgingly.

He thinks it's brilliant.

Axel laughs. Only okay? It's perfect! declares Axel, turning away from the brilliance of the city for a moment to look at Roxas. He seems to accept Roxas' words as they are, but by the way his face is glowing, Roxas can tell that he knows the truth.

Roxas shrugs and looks bored, but inside he feels warm. It's a nice feeling to have- especially on a night so cold that one can count words rising like steam into the frozen air.

**-Fin-**


End file.
